


The Heart That Loved

by JinkyO



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fuck Or Die, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Somnophilia, Team Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-07 21:44:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5471756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JinkyO/pseuds/JinkyO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Root, John, and Harold rescue Shaw from Samaritan but her very presence puts them all at risk.  Now, the team's only chance at survival means breaking the bonds that hold them all together.<br/></p><ul>
<li> The blacklisted fic so <i>CONTROVERSIAL</i>
</li>
<li>censorship group @poi_au on tumblr</li>
<li>and fellow fic writers eliasp</li>
<li>iwouldcurseworldsforyou</li>
<li>and mixterhodgins on AO3</li>
<li>don't want you to <b>READ IT!</b>
</li>
</ul>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> July 17, 2016 - Below are the original author's notes that have been attached to this fic since the beginning, as well as the Rape/Non-Consensual tag. 
> 
> I've been dithering over these tags for too long. So, the story contains non-consensual sex between Root and Shaw. Without giving too much away, it's non consensual because Shaw's not in a position to give consent. "Rape/Non-Con" feels too extreme for this story *but* I can't justify not tagging it that way, because technically, it's both of those things. I'll gladly accept tag suggestions in the comments. Beyond that if you think you may be triggered by the non-consensual themes and you've clicked this far, it might be best to turn back now.

With the Machine's voice in her head silenced, Root's autonomic system took over. She shouldered the submachine gun and blasted her way into the uncertain: John at her side, Harold and his precious cargo shielded behind.

She had used most of her ammo getting past the last four Samaritan squads. By her count she had six bullets left in the magazine. She wasn't optimistic about their odds.

When another dark SUV swerved onto the road, its bright headlights cutting through the darkness and aimed directly at them, she downgraded the calculations.

"Take cover behind that truck," John said as he passed his hand gun to her. "I'll try to get behind them."

Try.

Take cover.

John had done the same math.

There was no time to coordinate the move. Root heard the SUV doors open as she shoved Harold and the briefcase behind the useless cover of the New York Journal delivery truck. Samaritan's bullets would shred the sheet aluminum in minutes. A heavy Ford pickup truck sat parked across the street. Better, but they wouldn't both make it across the exposed distance in time.

On the other side of the truck she heard the start of the firefight. Motioning for Harold to follow, Root crept along the side of the newspaper truck, opposite the sidewalk, towards the passenger door. This was as close as she could get Harold and the crippled Machine.

"The briefcase is bullet proof," she said as she slipped the Glock into her pocket. "Use it. I'll cover you. Get behind the engine block of that pick-up over there and stay put until John comes for you."

John must have gotten behind the Samaritan agents by now because, while the gunfire was still ongoing, but the dull thuds of bullet impact weren't hitting their tenuous hiding place anymore. She hadn't asked John how many bullets he had left.

"It's been fun, Harry," Root said, casting a sad glance down at the briefcase. "Go."

Hoisting the MP5K to her shoulder, she stood and sighted the nearest agent. Her aim was less accurate without the Machine in her ear. The human body, center mass, was an easy target nonetheless. Root had drawn their fire, but, now there were only three agents to contend with.

She ducked as a direct hit exploded the truck's windshield. She ran for the cover of a little car parked one spot up and when she lifted her head again she saw two agents silhouetted in the bright headlight beams. They stood back to back, one firing at John, and the other, aiming with ruthless precision, at her. Root crouched back down and quickly solved the geometry; moving forward one more car length would bring her abreast of both agents and she doubted _they_ were counting bullets.

As she prepared to move, the car sagged and gave way as a burst of bullets blew out the front tires. The windshield and plastic front quarter panel went next. Root fired off her last two rounds then tossed the submachine gun aside for the Glock. She took aim on the larger agent as he swung around and joined the shorter sure-shot in targeting her. She couldn't hear John anymore.

Huddled behind the ruined car, she took her shot. The tall agent staggered but didn't go down. There was a glint in the light as the short agent fixed her barrel on Root.

Root ducked. The shot rang out. The bullet whizzed past her shoulder, close enough to feel its kinetic heat. Close enough to signal the end. Someday was today.

Without Her help, Root was left to parse the simulations on her own and even John could run these numbers; this was their last and only chance at getting the Machine and Harold to safety. Root gripped the gun in her hand and stood. Across the short distance that separated her from the two agents she could see that the tall one was still down, groping helplessly at his leg. The little one ignored her partner's struggles and took a step closer on the sidewalk, directly into the beam of headlights.

Root gasped and her throat burned with the acrid gun smoke that filled the air. Her eyes went wide in recognition. Her finger loose on the trigger. "Sameen?"

The small woman angled her head slightly then leveled her gun with precision.

Root flung herself to the right just before the woman's bullet cut through the space she had been standing. From the inky darkness outside the car's lights came two more gunshots. One to finish off the injured agent, the second spinning the shorter one at the hip.

"John!" Root cried, dropping her gun to her side as she dashed around the front of the car to the sidewalk.

The agent lifted her gun again. Behind her, so did John and then he brought it down hard against the back of the shooter's head.

"Where's Harold?" he barked, kicking the shooter's gun away.

"F-Series. Across the street."

He unhooked his handcuffs and tossed them to Root before sprinting for Harold's location, leaving her to secure the unconscious woman on the sidewalk. John's bullet had gone through and through her coat. Pushing the sleeves up, Root noted the tell-tale incision of the Samaritan chip. From there she made a quick check for injuries and weapons. In addition to the Samaritan issue earpiece and hefty assault rifle, Root came away with a small back up pistol and a field knife. There was no visible blood. She sent up a silent thanks for that. Root rolled Sameen onto her stomach and clamped on the cuffs.

"Miss Groves? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Harry. You?"

"Later!" John growled. He dropped down to scoop Shaw off the sidewalk and threw her roughly over his shoulder. "This way," he called. "Their keys are still in the ignition."

"GPS?"

"Packing the Machine took out the entire city grid," Harold huffed as he struggled to keep up. "We have, possibly, an hour long window before their local receivers are fully online again."

"Good. We can work with that," Root said as they approached the abandoned SUV.

"Finch, you drive." John said as he shoved Shaw's unconscious body into the back seat before coming around to the driver's side to pop the hood open, giving Root access to rip out the SUV's built-in GPS transmitter. John held the door. He looked towards the backseat for a moment and then back to Finch, his lips compressed in a tight grimace. "I'm going to need to borrow your tie too."

Harold hobbled to the car, cradling the precious briefcase in his arms. He took a moment to settle the Machine between the front seats then yanked his tie free from his collar and handed it over.

"Root, what's our play - because she's going to wake up any minute now," John barked.

"We need a place to hole up," Root answered as she slammed the hood and scrambled for the front passenger seat. "She's tagged, so we can't go back to the subway."

"I know a place," Harold said and started the ignition. They all held on as Harold executed a sharp three-point turn and wheeled them away from the substation battlefield.

The blackout had snarled traffic throughout the city and they were running out of time. The first stop was to swap out the Samaritan death trap for something old and inconspicuous. Half a mile later they found a beat-up sedan that fit the bill. While John transferred Shaw and Harold into into the newly hot-wired car, Root ransacked the SUV for anything that might come in handy later and within five minutes they were on the move again.

Looking into the rear view mirror, Root saw John pull out of his coat and jacket while Harold cut through a series of increasingly narrow one-way streets until they finally hit the Lincoln Tunnel.

Shaw was coming to in the back seat, hissing garbled curses around Harold's tie. Root turned in her seat to offer John help. Shaw's dark eyes met hers and narrowed and then she kicked against the back of Root's seat with a force that sent Root flying towards the dashboard. John grabbed Shaw's legs and struggled to hold her still but there was nothing he could do to keep her quiet.

Shaw howled against her gag as they drove into New Jersey. The lights were out on the other side of the Hudson. Nothing was coming in through the radio either. In Her final moments She had given them one last gift.

Eventually Harold killed the headlights and pulled the car into a dodgy, by-the-hour motel. By unspoken, but unanimous decision, Root took a handful of bills from Harold and, morphing into character, staggered her way across the wide parking lot to the dark front desk.

In the back seat, John had his heavy coat draped over Shaw's head and body. She was quiet for now, but as he exchanged looks with Finch, it was clear to both of them that she hadn't given up. 

Root returned a few minutes later with a bundle of linens and a room key. "Drive around to the back."

The room was on the second level, away from the freeway. As Harold climbed out with the briefcase, she pulled the top sheet from the pile then turned to the backseat to silently communicate her plan to John. He nodded in agreement.  

The car hid her actions from the rest of the freeway facing rooms as she exited and walked around to the rear passenger door. She unfolded the sheet on the ground. Catching the two opposite corners in her hand, she signaled to John that she was ready.

Her heart sank as the car door opened and John nudged Shaw out by gun point. "Nice and steady, I don't want to hurt you," he murmured.

Blinded by his heavy coat, Shaw stepped out onto the sheet. Working in tandem, Root and John quickly trussed her up like a cat caught in a bag. John stifled her howls of protest against his shoulder and hauled her up the steps to the room.

Root grabbed the large first aid kit, the flashlights, and two of the guns retrieved from the Samaritan SUV and followed after them up the rickety stairs. Inside, as her eyes adjusted to the dim room, she could make out Shaw, sprawled on the room's sole king sized bed, wriggling furiously in the cocoon of sheeting and coat as she tried desperately to dislodge John from atop her.

Root sat the heavy kit on a nearby table and flicked on the flashlight so that she and Harold could inventory the contents.

"Midazolam," he said as he pulled two vials out. "This can..." His voice faltered.

"We have to take the chip out of her arm, Harry," Root said gently. "Then we have to check her to see if she has any other trackers planted on her."

"How do you plan to do that?" Finch asked, his eyes going wide as Root pulled a wrapped needle from the kit.

"The old fashioned way." She tore the seal from one of the sedative bottles and inserted the needle.

John's face was impassive as she approached the bed. Root tapped her finger against her cheek and John nodded. Harold limped to the foot of the bed and caught hold of Shaw's legs while John braced his arm against her throat and rolled over her to hold her still. Root pulled John's coat away to reveal Shaw's face. Working carefully, and mindful of her fingers, she pulled Shaw's lip back and quickly injected the sedative into her cheek.

As soon as Root withdrew the needle Shaw jerked up and tried to lunge but John held her steady against the mattress for what seemed an eternity. Finally, her attempts to fight back faded to nothing but a series of feeble kicks.

"How much did you give her?" he asked quietly as he pulled the coat away from Shaw's face and brushed her hair out of her eyes.

"Two milligrams. I don't know what else is in her system right now. I'm hoping to get an hour and a half, maybe two hours, out of that shot."

John rolled Shaw to her side and unlocked the cuffs. "After that?"

"We'll have plenty of time to figure that out after we remove Samaritan's tracking chip," Finch said. "Our window is closing rapidly."

Root took a deep breath and nodded. John pulled away the sheet wrapped around Shaw's legs then he started unlacing her boots. Root joined him on the bed and peeled Shaw out of her jacket. She fought back her rage as she undressed her, feeling the fresh scars that marred Sameen's shoulders and back.

"They tried to break her," Root spat out as she caressed her hand down Shaw's arm and felt for the hard biochip.

"We got her back," John said in a gentle voice as he unbuckled Shaw's tactical belt. "One step at a time."

Finch pushed the motel side table closer to the bed and began setting up. Gloves, gauze, rubbing alcohol and suture kit soon lay at the ready as he pulled on a pair of gloves and began assembling the thin scalpel blade and handle.

"Root?" John's voice carried a quiet urgency as he glanced across Shaw's prone body to find Root sitting quietly, her fingers still strumming over Shaw's forearm. 

"One step at a time," Root repeated in a far away voice. She handed the flashlight across Shaw's prone body to John then pushed off the bed.

A splash of alcohol over her gloved hands, the sharp blade, and Shaw's forearm, were all the prep they had for this primitive surgery. Harold held a gauze pad to clear away the blood. John balanced the flashlight under his chin and held Shaw's arm in place against one of the spare towels. Root closed her eyes for a moment to focus herself before she made the cut.

The incision was neat and quick. Root used the blade to pry the chip loose and then carefully pulled it out. If they had more time, more resources, she would have kept the little device and cracked its secrets. They had neither. Root dropped the bloody microchip into Harold's bloodied gauze and he folded the padding over it and snapped the chip into two.

A low hum filled the room and the lights flickered for a half second before going out again. They froze. Shaw winced, and draw her arm back against John's restraining hands.

"Is she not out?!" Finch asked as the horrifying scene played out before him.

"Sedated, not anesthetized," Root answered and splashed more alcohol on the incision. "I don't want to give her another dose yet."

"Understandable," he said, threading the suture needle. "But we're going to have to do something when she wakes up."

"That's assuming she doesn't have anything else on her," John said. "A secondary chip that will lead Samaritan straight to us."

"There's got to be a second chip," Root sighed. She pulled the second flashlight from her pocket. "You saw her, she's programmed to kill. To kill us, specifically."

"How? Brainwashing? Mind control?" Finch asked.

"Stitch," John said.

"I don't think Shaw would... respond to torture, or traditional brainwashing techniques in any way Samaritan expected," Root said. She moved to the headboard and aimed the light toward Shaw's head. Gently, she ran her fingers through the soft hair, putting aside the many times Sameen had allowed her this luxury in the past.

"The neuroimplants," John said flatly.

Root's fingers brushed against the rough stitches just behind Shaw's left ear and she nodded.

"We have to assume it's the same model as the samples your brought back from Maple," Finch added, continuing with the sutures.

"Or a close next generation."

"Which means Dr. Enright may be able to extract it?"

"Possibly. But until then, even without a transmitter, Shaw has a microchip in her head that's probably broadcasting her location and sending her kill orders."

"The Faraday cage in the subway. We could confine her there."

"We have to get her there first. And we can't keep her doped up indefinitely," Root said.

"And we can't leave her behind."

Finch tied off the last of the stitches. "My experience with neuroelectronics is limited. However, we might be able to rig some device that might....interrupt the implants signals. There may be usable parts from the car."

"You want to short circuit her brain?" Reese asked skeptically.

"Temporarily," Root said. She gathered the used medical supplies for disposal while Harold bandaged Shaw's arm.

"We're working blind, Miss Groves. We don't know that she's got an implant, but assuming she does, we don't know how it works."

"And if that electrical spurt was any indication, we're running out of time to figure it out."

Shaw groaned, interrupting the conversation. John pushed off of the bed and began untucking the rough comforter. "I'll get her settled. Finch, you said we might be able to use parts from the car to build a signal jammer?"

"It's possible. We could...  Ancient shaman discovered certain frequencies that could induce a relaxed or meditative state..."

"Alpha, theta, and delta frequencies," Root added, honing in on Harold's line of thought. "I could use my cochlear implant to tune to the right wavelength."

"We could pull the wiring out of the car radio," Harold tagged on.

Reese listened to them firing ideas back and forth in the dark while he pulled the comforter off the bed then walked around to move Shaw under the sheets. "Do we have time to scavenge parts in the dark and build this sound machine?" John asked as he covered Shaw's body with the rough sheets.

"I'm all ear if you have a better idea," Root said, her desperation palpable behind the jest.

"Well," John sat on the edge of the bed, joining the brainstorming session. "That part about shaman and meditation, could we do that without building something? I mean, how did they do it?"

"Drums," Finch supplied. "Chanting..."

"Sex, in some of the tantric cultures," Root added.

On the bed, Shaw let out another groan and drew her arm up to cradle against herself. The sedative was wearing off, signaling that she had built up a resistance to the drugs during her time under Samaritan's care.

Root sat down next to John and twisted herself back to face Shaw. Harold's tie was still in place between her lips. In the dim light her eyelids fluttered with the rapid eye motion underneath. Root brushed the back of her fingers over Shaw's cheek. "I should get her another dose."

"Root?" Harold said softly.

"Hmm?"

"Sex..." he began cautiously, "That might produce the sort of neuromodulation we'd need in order to get her back to the subway."


	2. Chapter 2

In the dark, it was impossible to see anyone's face clearly but they all felt the cold, uncomfortable hush that fell over the room and lingered.

It was John who finally broke the silence. "Tell me what you need from the car."

"He's got a point, John," Root said quietly. 

"No."

"John," Finch said, his voice sounding weary in the darkness, "we just need to disrupt the implant long enough to get Miss Shaw back to the subway station. It's not an elegant or ideal solution..."

"But it would work," Root said, finishing the thought. "During orgasm, the human brain is flooded with a surge of neurochemicals. The entire brain is activated, except for the parts that shut down completely."

"The lateral orbitofrontal cortex," Finch said. "The behavioral and decision making center."

"That's all fine, but you both seem to be ignoring the fact that Shaw's in no shape to take care of herself right now. That means we're responsible for her. So just tell me what the hell we need from the car so that we can-"

"John." Root moved her hand in the dark and found his arm. "Help me move her to the bathtub."

John jerked away and fumbled for the flashlight. He flicked on the bright beam and aimed it at Root first, then Finch, as if needing to verify that they both were prepared to go through with this idea. "No."

"She was willing to die for us!" Root hissed, her teeth flashing in the half light. "If we don't do this, then we have to leave her behind again. And we go now, before the grid comes back online and we all die. You, me, Harold, the Machine -And Shaw? Do you think Greer has any use for her once we're dead?"

"Finch?" John asked desperately.

"If she could make a choice, or if the situation was reversed, I would like to believe that Miss Shaw would come to the same conclusion as we are now."

"The same conclusion as you and Root, you mean? You think Shaw would be okay with this?"

Root stood and ran her hands over her face. The weight of everything they'd gone through today, and the weeks and months beforehand that had led to this day, settled over her shoulders like a mantle of misery. "I don't know, John," she sighed. "All I know is that I want her back and we're wasting so much time."

"Mr. Reese, Miss Groves is right," Finch said, using the low, calm voice he reserved for the most dire of situations. "Just like you were right with Congressman McCourt. Please, let Root do this. We can try to atone for it later, but if we don't shut down that implant we will all surely die. Everything that we've fought for, the lives we could potentially save by reinstantiating the Machine's processes - all of that will be lost."

John rose from the bed and walked out of the room. Neither Harold nor Root went after him.

Without a word, Harold retrieved the discarded flashlight from the folds of the sheets where John had been sitting and passed it over to her, squeezing her hand lightly. He couldn't quite meet her eyes, but if he had looked, he would have noticed that she was avoiding his as well.

"Hurry," he said softly before taking up his hat and the briefcase -the blue light still flashing its faint, steady beat- and slowly made his exit to join Reese on the motel balcony. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

There had been no discussion as to which of them would do this. Like Harold, Root was almost certain Shaw would do the same thing if their positions were reversed. Up until a few months ago, Root wouldn't have even questioned this plan.

Shaw would understand.

The case was plain. Once Samaritan regained GPS functions and located its missing asset, Greer's agents would be on them. Greer would have the Machine and Shaw would die, for real this time, along with them. Weighing her choices, it was hard to tell which was a worse option.

She sat the flashlight on the table; she didn't want light for this. Shaw lay on her back, tiny and vulnerable on the over-sized bed, holding her bandaged right arm across her chest under the thin sheet. The first aid kit was stocked with high grade pain pills and Root's initial objection had been the danger of Shaw choking. Now, she couldn't afford to have the pills render Shaw insensate. Root needed Shaw to feel everything. She turned away for a moment and swallowed down the acidic feeling of revulsion.

"I'm sorry," Root whispered as she took her jacket off and let it fall to the floor.

She pulled back the sheet and slid into the cold bed to Shaw's left. The gag was crude, distorting Shaw's belligerent cries earlier but as Root lay beside her now, Shaw's fitful groans of pain were as clear as Her voice had once been in Root's head. She couldn't give Shaw the hydrocodone, but, Root thought as she placed a tentative hand on Shaw's stomach, she could still give her some relief.

Root caught her lip between her teeth and forced herself to slide her palm over Shaw's unresponsive skin, along the too prominent ribcage and down further still, until she felt the plain cotton panties under her fingertips. The trick was to hurry, and yet, after holding on to hope for so long, Root finally had her back and she wanted nothing more than to wait it out. Wait until she was awake and aware. Wait until she could explain.  Wait until Sameen understood that she was safe now.

Root slipped her fingers under the elastic band and closed her eyes. Shaw's curls had grown wild during her captivity. Unbidden, Root nudged her nose against Shaw's uninjured arm and discovered another secret forest in bloom underneath. She breathed Shaw in. She hadn't factored her own arousal into this plan.

Sameen was never this docile in bed. Root drew her hand away and ran her wet tongue over her fingertips. The taste of her was achingly familiar. This was still her Sameen. Tossing her hair back, Root pressed herself to Shaw's hip and eased her hand back under the cotton briefs. She flicked her thumb over Shaw's clit and beside her, Shaw answered with a low moan.

She brushed her cheek against Shaw's soft breast, cupped in a sturdy, Samaritan issue sports bra, closed her eyes, and dipped her fingers through Shaw's warmth. Hurry, Root repeated to herself, shuddering a breath against the bra as she felt the first response of Shaw slick juices on her fingers.

Hurry! -and the push of her fingers inside. Her hips rocking against Shaw's yielding body, her teeth finding the hard jut of nipple, Root pushed aside the spike of guilt and slide a third finger inside.

She felt and heard the change in Sameen's breathing. Quick and shallow now around Harold's silk tie. Blood was seeping through the bandaging on her forearm. Root twisted her fingers inside Sameen's warm, unguarded body and set up a deep rhythm of, sure thrusts. She curled her fingers inside the hot and slick channel and felt Shaw shiver under her touch.

Root tangled her free hand through Shaw's hair. Her knuckles dragged along the rough line of stitches at the scalp as she anchored herself to Shaw's side and fucked her like her life depended on it. When Shaw's ragged moans of pleasure cut began to supplant her groans of pain, Root silenced her with an awkward kiss over the gag.

She wanted Shaw to return these touches. She wanted Shaw to shift against the mattress with her feline grace and pin her down to the bed by her wrists. Root wanted almost anything other than this desperate, damp rutting, and Sameen's passive, but biologically certain, reaction.

The orgasm came quickly.

Root dropped her head onto Shaw's chest. She wanted Shaw to return the touch but instead, the electrical hum sounded once again and this time the lights came on and stayed.

The bruises and welts Root had felt under her hands earlier had only told a fraction of Shaw's time with Greer and Martine and she had no doubt which one had been responsible for most of these scars.

She would have to wait until they got Shaw back to the make-shift sick bay in the station in order to uncover the full extent of her injuries. Now, all she could do was pull herself off of Sameen, wet a wash cloth to clean away the evidence of her violation, wrap her up in the stiff, dry motel bedspread, and haul her across the room to the door. Harold and John were standing watch out on the cold balcony.

"We're ready," Root said.


End file.
